


Post Mortem

by ultrachildish



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Vampire Slayer, Blood, Character Death, M/M, Swearing, Vampire Hunters, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2020-11-29 07:08:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20959343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultrachildish/pseuds/ultrachildish
Summary: They like to come out just after it hits sunset... Where the sky darkens past orange and the sun has sunken deep enough into the horizon. Blood-hungry and devoid of humanity, they come out to prey on the weak and terrorize behind the scenes.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to delve into something a bit more serious and a bit out of my comfort zone. I've been stressing over whether or not to make this a one shot or just have it as a multi-chapter story since I felt it was a bit too long. I've decided to go with different chapters being at different points in time. Did I proofread this? My bad.

Smoke filtered through the air in the dingy bar. Its patrons entertaining themselves as they get drunk off what ever it is they're drinking. Old-school rock music is playing at a moderate volume in the background drowned out by inane chatter and the clacking of billiard balls. Passing the time by letting loose as it ticks away at the hours left before closing. The walls are painted a dull blue color, showing signs of its age. Ugly paintings, taxidermy animals and old candids litter the view of the already atrocious vantage point being had from the table nearest the exit. The place was a dump, but the booze was cheap.

Bucky is sitting at his table still like a statue. His eyes not really staring at one particular object or individual, but everywhere. He's tracking every movement, every detail about anyone that walks in. This is his fifth bottle he's nursing and there's no buzz slowing his speech or slurring his movement. And now he's drumming his fingers along the side of the bottle – which isn't as cold as he usually likes it. He's been sitting for hours – stewing in this hot ass place, drinking the carbonated sewer water they call beer.

They like to come out just after it hits sunset... Where the sky darkens past orange and the sun has sunken deep enough into the horizon. Blood-hungry and devoid of humanity, they come out to prey on the weak and terrorize behind the scenes. When night comes, there's an entire network of them. A network so ingrained into society. Politicians, cops, the courts – beloved figureheads... there's either collusion or false pretense. Bucky can't count how many of them he's killed. He doesn't care to keep track – why should he? The only thing that's of his concern is how fat his wallet gets after each job.

And he sits there. Waiting. Clean shaven and hair cut short. Wearing his nicest black, form-fitting long sleeve Henley shirt in the nicest pair of blue jeans he owns. His left arm disguised with the rubbery skin-like material that helps him blend into the background. His leather jacket sits haphazardly on the back of his chair.

His eyes zero in on a woman standing over by the bar. She's been sitting, unmoving, since she walked in an hour ago. Twisting her glass back and forth on the bar top between her perfectly manicured fingers. She's pale, her straight dark hair tucked behind her ears along with her deep red lipstick bring out an alluring contrast. The low cut blouse she's wearing – black – paired with a pair of tight black jeans really helps accentuate the curves of her figure.

And then her eyes shift upwards and she's staring directly into his eyes.

Internally, he bit down the urge to roll his eyes at the teasing smile she gives him – like he'd been caught. Opting to tip his half empty bottle to her and nod instead. As she begins to make her way over he steels himself. Even in a crowded room, Bucky can't seem to keep his mind at ease when they approach him with such predatory fervor. His body's physical reaction to anxiety infiltrating his brain has dulled over the years, thankfully, so interactions are hardly an issue. The smile on her face is slightly and unsettlingly predacious.

“Such a pretty man sitting here all alone, I'd assume you've been stood up.” Oh that's interesting, she has an accent. “I don't believe I've seen you here before?”

“I'm stickin' out that much?” A lopsided, pearly white smile paints his face as he performs in his best Southern drawl. She sizes him up. It makes his skin crawl. “Jus' flew in from Texas here... visitin' some friends I ain't seen since college. Wanted to grab a drink 'fore I head back out.” The woman purses her lips in amusement as she sits in the empty seat across from him uninvited.

“Shouldn't you be spending it with your friends, then?”

“They ain't much into drinkin' these days.” He tilts his head enough to where the light reflects in his eyes. People always said his eyes were the most irresistible blue.

“Oh.” a slight tilt in her voice. “Well... howdy, then.” Bucky huffs out a laugh and she soon follows. She holds out her hand for Bucky to take. “Peggy.”

“Stan.” He replies, and the conversation flows from there.

. . .

They're outside now. It's almost one in the morning and Bucky's stumbling out, seventh beer in hand, with Peggy a few steps ahead with her hand in his other and his leather jacket around her shoulders. Prattling on about how American tea is such a travesty and how weird it is using the metric system instead of imperial. The open atmosphere is a welcome change, at least. The air is clear and the sky is a nice dark indigo illuminated by the moon and stars. The streets are dead and littered with only a few flickering street lights that are way past due for maintenance.

Peggy leads him to a park, figures she would. The place is deserted – a perfect spot for people to do things they have no business doing. She's starting to get a little handsy as they reach the woody part of the empty park. They slow their pace as she _shows him around_, her hand rubbing up and down on his right arm in some morbid fascination. His stomach turns in disgust.

“You've such an impressive physique... and you're so warm.” she trails off. She brushes her hands up the side of his body before she wraps them around his neck, lips hovering over his collar bone. “Will you keep me warm tonight?” She doesn't give Bucky – Stan – a chance to reply, because her lips are on his. He grabs her by the waist and walks her up against a tree, lips still attached. They only break for a second to catch their breaths.

Peggy breaks away a second time, moving to kiss up his neck. He feigns surprise as she switches positions with him so now he's the one pushed up against a tree. He drops his beer.

“Oh, how I love this part.” She murmurs, her tongue tracing along Bucky's jugular. As a reflex, he switches their position again so she's back up against the tree again. Peggy huffs in amusement at the force Bucky uses. She kisses him again and he can feel the points of her canines brush against his lips.

In slow, meticulous movements with his flesh hand – not to hinder the momentum he has going – he removes the dagger sheathed in the pocket of his coat still hanging over Peggy's shoulders. He keeps his eyes open, disinterested in how Peggy thinks she knows he thinks where this is going. The thought of going any further than this makes him pull away from her and pivot his dagger in his hand so the blade is against his palm.

Now his left arm is up to her chest, holding her in place against the tree. Bucky's heavy breathing breaking through the silence.

“Oh, I love this part too...” The drawl is gone. Peggy's face twists in confusion as she opens her mouth to speak, but only a strangled grunt comes out. He's impaled her with the dagger, so quietly – so swiftly. Directly into her heart.

She can't make her mouth form a coherent word. Bucky stares at her, face stoic. His eyes absent of any presence. He lowers himself as he begins to whisper into her ear.

“How many people have you killed this month? Can you answer that for me?” He asks so casually. His breath caressing her ear as she shakes.

She answers with just another choked grunt.

“I counted seven.” He says as he snatches his dagger from her chest. He watches as she sinks to the ground. “See, this is the shit that happens when you can't control yourself.” The snark in his voice doesn't match the blankness of his expression. He watches her form wilt and skin turn gray. Pretty soon her body will turn to ash and she'll just be another pile of dirt.

He picks up the almost empty beer he dropped in the grass and chugs its remaining contents.

. . .

Dark halls sporadically illuminated by dim lights pave the way to the conference hall. It's minutes past midnight and indistinct murmuring can be heard behind the thick, large double doors. The only windows had been from the doors that led to the outside, which is a perfect place for vampires to convene.

“The Circle needs order-”

“Order at the expense of our agency? Of our rights?”

“Well what do you expect to be done with all of the attacks going on? By our kind? Six people murdered and three injured!”

“So what, they don't give us a fair trial? Treat us like human beings? How do you know they're not retaliating in self defense? Or set up? The revisions don't count that-”

“The revisions to the Accords are necessary for us to operate more efficiently. It will reintegrate us into society and in turn, better relationships with outsiders will be possible.”

“So this is about integration in a society that fears us already? Not about improving our own economy first? Not about having a more organized transitional program for fledglings?”

“This _will_ improve our economy-”

“No, this is bullshit! These revisions are bullshit! You can't sit here and tell me that treating us like criminals is fair and just.”

“Sam...” Natasha cut in.

“Listen to me, and _really_ listen to what I'm saying... not a lot of us here had the choice to turn.” The room was quiet. Of course this would be taken personally, as he himself didn't have the choice to choose this life. “How would you feel if you didn't have that choice, Barton? Or you, Cage?” Both Barton and Cage moved their mouths to speak, but weren't given the chance. “These people are still people... living and breathing people – and they do not deserve to be treated like second-class citizens just because _you_ can't keep your clan in line!”

“We aren't humans, Wilson.” A gruff voice cuts in. Sam is irritated and having Pierce's haughty, self-serving asshole face in that twisted smirk with his leathery ass skin just burns him in the second worst possible way.

“Fuck you, Pierce!” The room erupts into chaos once more.

“Okay, that's enough!” Potts cuts in and ends the verbal scuffle before it gets worse.

Sam stands to gather his composure. This happens every time they have council! The other four Circle leaders gang up on him when a disagreement rears its ugly head – usually from Pierce's ugly mouth – while everyone else nods and smiles like puppets. It's extremely difficult for them to come to any kind of detente when they counter every point he makes. Sam is no stranger to debates, he welcomes them – enjoys them. But debates are supposed to hold hard facts, history, statistics...

“The meeting is adjourned. We will reconvene at a later date once we...” Potts' eyes shift over to Sam. “Iron out some kinks.” Sam scoffs.

“SHIELD's revisions to the Accords are a fucking joke and you know it.” Potts presses her thin lips together into an even thinner line, he continues. “All they want to do is bleed us dry of our resources – treating us like we work for them. Like we don't got no right to live our lives... or what's left of 'em.”

The Accords, drafted thirty years ago, were put in place after Tony Stark's destructive reign on New York. He ended up turning and killing countless people in hopes of finding a suitable beneficiary to his tainted legacy. Sam was but another casualty to his madness. He'd spend the next seventy years struggling to accept what he'd become after his death. He couldn't even celebrate the fact that the man had been slain by an unnamed hunter by chance some years ago, too focused on keeping his sanity in check. Too angry that he didn't get to kill Stark himself.

As the party disperses into separate corners of the room to participate in hushed conversation, Sam strides over to make an exit – not before giving Pierce a look of contempt. Natasha follows. They're quiet.

They walk for a while to cool their heads. It's become routine after every meeting they have.

“What are you gonna do?” Natasha asks, they've made it to the parking lot and Sam isn't walking as stiffly as he was when they left.

“First, I'm gonna change out of this stuffy ass suit,” Sam drawls, “and then, I'm gonna hit that new spot that just opened up off Broadway. You coming? I'll pay.”

“Not what I was asking.” Natasha raises an eyebrow as a staring match ensues between them before giving him a full on smile. “But yes, you're paying.

“I just need to chill for a minute, and to do that I need to get the fuck out of Queens.” Natasha raises her arms in surrender as their driver pulls up.

. . .

Loud dance music shakes the stale air of that new spot that just opened off Broadway. For a club named '_The Dig_', the décor absolutely clashes with the overbearing tempo of what ever remixed Top 40 song is playing right now. The lights, fading from reds into pinks – blues into whites, cheapen the look of the falsely lavish furniture. It's nothing more than an abandoned theater with tacky maroon chairs and tiny tables. It's far from the safe haven shindig Sam _assumed_ it would be.

He hates it.

Both Sam and Natasha are sitting at the bar (which unsurprisingly isn't crowded) perusing their selection of alcohol. Sam would be lying if he said the drinks didn't look enticing, and here he is ordering himself an Old Fashioned and Natasha – a Manhattan.

They sit in silence for a while. Trying to get used to the music playing. The song isn't good, it's just some 'singer' saying _Havana_ on loop with slight tempo changes and beat drops. It's the worst fucking thing Sam has heard in his ninety plus years of living. He came here to unwind, but the club's atmosphere is doing nothing to appease the swirling of unease and anger deep in his gut.

“This place sucks.”

“I like it.” Sam looks back, scandalized.

“Oh, of course you do, you're always the contrarian.” Natasha lifts an eyebrow at that. Though the tension has left Sam's body, he's still clearly annoyed with how quick the conference had turned left. She's watching him play with the ice in his drink out of the corner of her eye.

“I have to be, keeps you in check.” She says, followed by a pleased hum as she sips at her drink. “Oh this is good.” She almost misses the '_unfortunately_' Sam mutters in his glass.

They sit for a while - Natasha's staring at Sam nodding her head along with the beat of the music. Sam orders another drink. It's just whiskey this time. Concern creases her brow at his worn posture, Sam has always been the image of regality. Always so carefree and light - cunning and sharp. The Sam she likes to see has his head held high, his chin up like he's always got something up his sleeve – the way the air around him is calming. His slick mouth. The Sam she's seeing right now... she'll never be used to it. Not the inward hunch of his upper body, the downward tilt of his head, or the far away look in his eyes. All individuals have a history, they all have different faces, different stories to tell. This face of Sam is one that brings her a discomfort. A pain she so desperately wants to mollify.

“I've been the Count of Manhattan for fifteen years... pretty short right? What's that, like a blink?” Natasha watches. “Even in death that bastard torments me.” she rests a comforting hand on his forearm. It's no question that his induction into the Circles was unorthodox. Being chosen by Stark, himself, had left a shadow that Sam struggles to step out from under even now. What did the man see in Sam that he thought was so necessary? What could have possibly been the reason to end his life only to restart it again without his consent? Is it some sort of joke? An experiment?

Questions like these are things he doesn't ask himself anymore. Mulling over scenarios, internal think-pieces, and what-ifs will do nothing for Sam at this point in his post-lifetime. What matters to him now is making sure no one suffers the same tragedy he has suffered. But now SHIELD's inclusion births new obstacles and he is stuck in a corner with the other Circle members breathing down his neck at any minor infraction.

“You may not see it – or maybe you do, but you're a _leader_, Sam.” Natasha levels her eyes to his for emphasis. “Stark may have been an evil son of a bitch, but I couldn't imagine anyone else being Count.” Sam huffs at that.

It's easy to assume that his source of distress stems from an inadequacy, but that's just not it. Sam is a leader – he _knows_ that. He is a leader; beloved, feared, revered. And also a counselor, mediator, a teacher – a damn host. He's fucking tired.

“Don't even know what the hell I'm doing anymore... what good is being Count of _anything_ when I can't even _do_ shit? All of it is politics and no action.”

“You do a lot.” Natasha takes another swig of her drink. “The Manhattan Circle looks up to you.”

“Okay, I get that.” There's a hint of annoyance in Sam's reply. “Do they look up to me because I'm Count or because of what I do?” This is an unnecessary question he asks. Everyone under his care just blindly following him either out of fear or some strange hyperfixation on his role. It's not particularly fulfilling.

“It can't be both?” Sam rolls his eyes. “Look, what you need right now is to find yourself a nice man with a good, thick vein and a high blood-alcohol level.” She's fixing the collar of his shirt. “When's the last time you've fed? I know for a fact it's been over a week, so you can't lie to me.”

“Will you stop hovering over me?” Sam swats her hands away. “I'm grown, I know what I need, thank you.”

Natasha can't help the snicker that escapes her. “I'm gonna head out for the night, make some phone calls... Don't have too much fun, Wilson. We have a phone conference tomorrow night about more outreach candidates.”

“Outreach candidates, got it.” Sam's beginning to tune her out. It becomes easy to do that when there's someone in his ear every hour on the hour telling him his daily schedule. Like he'd have a problem remembering it.

“Drink responsibly, Wilson.” It's the last thing Sam hears from her before she leaves him alone at the bar.

He's alone and now they're playing some song about rocking a baby. Why it's being played at a club is beyond him. At least these people can sing, he guesses.

. . .

Sam's on his fifth whiskey by the time he decides it's time for dinner.

Feeling much more at ease in his skin, he skims the crowd. The mix of familiar and unfamiliar faces scattered throughout. He takes a moment to survey the unfamiliar, though it doesn't take long for him to decide against meeting someone new. He really isn't in the mood to socialize. It takes him a long minute until he starts seeing people he's _met with privately_ before.

He spots Lang, but he isn't in the mood for his goofy ass commentary.

Quill – never again.

Odinson is quite healthy... too loud.

Luis just talks too damn much.

Sam's close to just giving up and going to Lang when he sees a man doing some terribly awkward dance facing away from him. It's difficult for Sam to suppress a laugh when the man trips over himself. The sway of his hips and the stiffness of his spine encapsulates the carefree and uninhibited frame of mind Sam is so desperately clinging to.

The thickness of his arms and neck are quite tantalizing... especially with the tight, pink shirt he's wearing. The veins bulging from his hand gripping his drink is like art. His body is sturdy and strong and Sam can't help but appreciate it.

This one will do for tonight.

Mustering up the energy to put on the facade of bravado, Sam saunters his way over to the dancing man. Drink in hand, he gives him another once-over. The deep sweetness of Sam's voice rings clear for the man's attention.

“Hey Jimmy.” The man startles.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are tired eyes – sleepless. Even when they are closed and resting, they still see. What could be – what has happened. They're there, they've seen, and they continue to see. But will it ever stop?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all want her? 100% YES 0% NO

“_Come on dude, you're gonna fall!”_

“_Shut up, Steven, and witness my cool shit!” Bucky snaps back as Steve rushes up to where the unfinished brick fence ends._

“_You gotta stop cussing so much, I don't wanna hear nothin' from you when you fall.” Bucky is walking on his hands, legs bent, balancing himself as he grasps along the brick in full concentration._

“_Ain't gonna happen. I don't gotta do shit!” A huff and an eye roll is directed at him, but he isn't paying much attention._

_Steve looks on in unnerved silence as Bucky makes it to where Steve is at the end of the fence, finally standing upright. _

“_Okay, that was cool! Can you get-” Steven's breath is caught in his throat when Bucky back flips off the fence, landing unsteadily on his feet - then his ass. _

_Steve's laughter and Bucky's pained groans echo in the cold evening air. Bucky lay flat on the concrete staring Steve down as the older boy's face is red from the chill and laughing his fucking brains out. _

_It goes on until Steve reaches a hand out to help him up. _

“_You need to put your jacket back on, it's freakin' cold out here.” Steve tosses Bucky's coat and backpack to him just as he regains his balance. _

“_It's not that cold...” Bucky's rubbing the side his backside landed on._

_That was sure to leave a mark tomorrow. _

_. . ._

“_So what if I'm a little sick! I'll get over it, I just need to let my Ma cool her head a little.”_

“_Yeah your Ma has gone postal, dude... Like next level Pleasantville tyrannical maniac.”_

“_You watched that? Wow.”_

“_Shut up, my mother practically like forced me.”_

“_Right...”_

“_Shut up, Steve.”_

_. . ._

“_You hear about that chick that went crazy in Queens last week?” Bucky plops down in the desk next to his in the school library, effectively cutting Steve's concentration from his calculus homework._

“_What?” Steve answers, confused. Bucky takes an obnoxious bite of the Twinkie, oblivious of the crumbs falling from his lips.”You can't eat in here...”_

“_This Darcy chick,” he swallows, ignoring Steve “they say she went crazy. Said she went out to a party and disappeared for like a week. Came back home and killed her folks.”_

“_Are you- are you serious?” Steve has to stop himself from raising his voice. _

“_Yeah man, that's not the fuckin' worst of it either...” Steve leans in closer to Bucky so no one else can hear. “They say she tried to eat them. Ripped out their throats and everything.” _

“_You're freakin' kidding me!” A shush is heard from across the room as Steve ducks his head in embarrassment. Bucky apologetically raises his hands in the direction of the librarian throwing them a disapproving look._

“_Geez, any louder and you'll let the whole damn school know.” _

“_So what happened?”_

“_Don't know.”_

_. . ._

“_That gig's gonna be shitty, so I'm staying home.”_

“_I think it'll be cool to go to a real concert, come on we're graduating soon. We gotta celebrate.”_

“_I'll pass – Nickleback is ass. I thought you only liked 'popular music' anyway?”_

“_I like music! All kinds!”_

“_No, I'm pretty sure I've seen a certain poster of a certain someone tucked away in your desk drawer”_

“_You went through my stuff, punk?”_

“_No, but the Britney shrine in the bottom right drawer is getting awfully cramped.”_

“_You're lucky you're on the phone or I'd ring your neck!”_

“_You could try.”_

“_Come on, Sharon said she's thinking about going. You like her, right?”_

“_You like her. You go, I'm busy that day anyway.”_

“_Doing what?”_

“_Minding my business.”_

_. . ._

_Steve didn't come home last night. He walked Sharon home and he never called her to check in. Have you talked to him at all? If you know something please tell me!_

_. . ._

“_Steve, where the hell have you been!”_

“_Dude what do you mean? I'm here.”_

“_Steve, you have been missing for a fucking month and you show up here at 3 AM? Are you on crack or somethin'?”_

“_Buck, seriously?”_

“_Yeah, seriously! Does your Ma even know you're here?”_

“_Dude, it's cool.”_

“_No it isn't! Last time anyone hears from you was before you snuck out that night! Me, your Ma, and Sharon have been going fuckin' nuts! Have you even talked to Sharon? Does she know-”_

“_Bucky. I'm good. I'm better now...”_

“_...Yeah, you look happy and healthy for someone we all thought was fucking dead.”_

“_Look... this guy, Tony... he did something to me and I feel fucking fantastic!”_

_. . ._

_Steve is acting weird... Sharon have you talked to Steve?_

_We aren't together anymore._

_. . ._

_Blood on the walls. _

_Blood on the ground. _

_The backdoor is open. Where is Miss Rogers?_

_Blood on the door. _

_Where is Steve?_

_Walls painted with blood. Something is burning._

_Where is Miss Rogers?_

_Lights are out._

_What is that noise? _

_Blood on the carpet._

_Who is crying? Steve?_

_Miss Rogers? _

_Steve, what did you do? Why would you do that?_

_My arm! Get off!_

. . .

Empty, blue eyes stare back at the man in the mirror.

The eyes trail from the bags under them, to the uneven stubble on the man's chin, to the mangled flesh on the man's left shoulder. The cool metal that's connected to it always feels like nothing. Like it doesn't exist. It's just there.

He hasn't felt anything there in twenty years... Yet every time he wakes up, he expects it. To be able to stretch his hand - to touch with the tips of his fingers... to feel the softness of fabric or the roughness of his own skin. To twist his wrist, to flex the muscles in his forearm... it's not there anymore.

Twenty years go by and every time he wakes up, he expects to feel something there and is always mistaken. Always.

There's a buzzing coming from the next room and his attention falters for a second. The man douses his face in cold water before continuing on.

The scars on his torso are ugly things that have healed poorly. What was once nicely tanned skin, has become a pale mess of flesh. What was once a source of pride, has become one of shame. The man in the mirror smooths the flesh hand over himself. More will be added soon.

The eyes in the mirror meet each other again. They are the saddest blue – bloodshot and dark. Aged beyond the years they've existed. The eyes that have seen the worst of things, but not many bests.

They are tired eyes – sleepless. Even when they are closed and resting, they still see. What could be – what has happened. They're there, they've seen, and they continue to see. But will it ever stop?

This is the question the man in the mirror asks himself before running off.

Every time.

. . .

There are texts on his burner phone from hours ago.

_'P/Coffee. Brx. 1400. Don't be late.'_

_'Or do I don't care.'_

Bucky squares his shoulders before getting dressed.

. . .

“You're late.” He wasn't.

Bucky ignores the man as he pulls a chair up to the conspicuous table outside. To everyone else, it looks like two regular men having a regular conversation over a regular coffee.

“What do you want?” Bucky never has any time for this man's small talk, he could go on about the fucking ducks if he wanted to.

“Oh sorry for being late, man! It won't happen again. Loving the tie, by the way! Cobalt is definitely your color.” The man, who Bucky now notices is sporting dark sunglasses in place of his notable eye patch, continues on the one-sided conversation.

Bucky just rolls his eyes.

“I have a job for you.” The man studies him, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Any time now, Fury? I got shit to do.”

“You don't make this shit easy, man. Here.” He slips him a small, black flash drive. “Got an anonymous tip... Manhattan's count suckin' on some innocents and very obviously leaving them for dead in other territories.”

“What are you payin' me?” The question grants no reaction from Fury, as he takes another annoyingly long sip of his drink before answering.

“Can I finish what I was saying?”

“What are you payin'?” Bucky won't let up, but Fury ignores it.

“I need to know if it's really him killing these people or if someone's tryin' to set him up. Either way it goes, shit hits the fan.” A count killing humans could monumentally fuck up any progress made by the Circle's plans to integrate itself _legitimately. _Although, seeing it implode from the inside would be entertaining to Bucky. It would prove vampires are not to be trusted. “Considering how delicate this situation is... the pay is tripled.”

“Ain't that your job?”

“Well, _I got shit to do_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so... I try to incorporate little bits and pieces from comic personalities that I think really makes a character feel complete. This chapter was just about exploring a glimpse of what goes on in Bucky's head and how he interacts with his not-boss. Also had my galaxy brain moment writing him post nightmare. Please clap.

**Author's Note:**

> There are a few things that I absolutely hate when it comes to SamBucky fics, one of them being the infantilization and sexualization of Bucky and his trauma (usually done by Sam). Sam is more than a therapist/babysitter/consolation prize for Bucky and Bucky is a grown man who has his own life to live. They both have their own traumas that they deal with day to day and I would like them being their own characters be prevalent when I write them.


End file.
